Fresh Counsel

Deep in despair was Zulaikha, slain
With the love of the hoy whom she wooed in vain.
One night she summoned her nurse to her side,
Where gently she hade her he seated, and cried :
“ Strength of this frame when my limbs are weak,
Lamp of my soul when thy light I seek,
Thy nursling owes thee each breath that she draws ;
If she lives, the sweet milk of thy love is the cause.
Love more than a mother’s, too deep to he told,
Has raised me up to the rank I hold.
How long must I pine with my fond bosom scarred,
How long from that soul of the world be debarred ?
Wilt, thou not aid me, and tenderly guide
My feet to the harbour that still is denied ?
What profits it me that my palace walls hold
My friend and myself, if that friend is so cold ?
The lover, whose darling refuses to hear,
Is far from his love, though he seem to he near.
If spirit from spirit he still far away,
What fruit has the meeting of water and clay ? ”
“ Sweet child of the Peris,” the nurse replied,
“ Though what were a Peri if set by thy side ?
God gave thee thy beauty to steal from the wise
Their heart and their face with thy ravishing eyes.
If a painter of china thy form portrayed.
And hung in a temple the picture he made,
The very idols to life would spring,
And their souls be the slaves of so fair a thing.
On the mountain height if thy cheek were shown,
Love would throb and thrill in the hard flint stone.
When to the garden thy steps are led,
Each dry tree raises his amorous head.
Each fawn on the plains when thy form she spies,
Would sweep thee a path with the fringe of her eyes.
When the charm of thy lip dropping sugar is heard,
From river and sky come the fish and the bird.
Why art thou sad, when such beauty is thine ?
Why yield to thy sorrow, and bitterly pine ?
Shoot out from that eye but one arrow, and thou
Wilt conquer the boy with the bow of thy brow.
Coil but a lock of those tresses, his feet
Will be caught in that beautiful snare when you meet.”
“ How can I tell thee the cruel scorn,”
Zulaikha said, “ that I long have borne ?
Can I show my beauty to one whose eye
Is bent on the ground when my step is nigh ?
Were I the moon, he would turn away :
The sun, he would shrink from his golden ray.
If, his own eye’s apple, I lent him light,
Scarce would he welcome the boon of sight.
Ah ! if a glance on mine eye he would throw,
The pangs that I suffer perchance he might know.
Those griefs would find place in his heart ; but he
Would never languish for love like me.
’Tis not only his beauty that kills me ; no,
’Tis the cold, cold heart, where no spark will glow.
Ah ! if but a pang for my sake he had felt,
Thus with my lover I never had dealt.”
“ Thou whose beauty casts on the sun a shade —
The nurse to her lady this answer made —
“ I have wrought a plan, and I trust that rest
Will at length be thine from the thought in my breast.
Bring forth thy treasure stored up of old,
Lade a camel with silver, a mule with gold.
I will build a palace like Iram fair,
And a skilful painter shall labour there
To paint on the walls with seductive charms,
Zulaikha folded in Yusufs arms.
If, for a moment, he visit the place,
He will see thee locked in his own embrace.
Then will he yearn for thy touch, and at length
The love of thy beauty will grow to its strength.
Soon will he yield with his senses on fire,
And naught will he left for thy heart to desire.”
She heard the counsel : her heart was bold :
She brought forth the stores of her silver and gold
And her wealth, fond fancies therewith to build,
She gave to the nurse to be spent as she willed.